Foolish gibberish

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wayback wednesday

I haven’t done a Wayback Wednesday post in a while and I miss doing them So I will start again. Here is a photo of who we think is my Great Grandfather, Wilfred Boucher. I have been thinking a lot about him, especially since I visited his grave last year. The man has a lot of secrets. And I kind of want to find out what they are.

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My mom sent this photo to me yesterday. It was taken in New York City exactly this time of year (end of October) in 1989. If my memory serves me correctly, this photo was taken the day I learned that my boyfriend back home in Spokane died in a car accident the night before. I would go home, after having had a fun day in the City, and learn this sad news. What a strange thing to think about today.

I don’t know what the fuck I am wearing. It was the Eighties.

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I haven’t done a Wayback Wednesday in ages. I left off with my great grandmother, Barbara Vakoc. Here she is again, second in from the right. She is standing with my great grandfather, Edward Schneberger. I am told that his brother is the other man in this photo and that this is his brother’s wedding. It’s possible that they could be modeling for Edward’s photography studio, too.

Again, I have always wondered about Barbara. In this photo she looks pissed off. I wonder what happened to make her have that look.

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Last week’s Wayback Wednesday was about my Grandpa, so I thought I would keep going in that vein and post photos of his parents. I am fascinated by their story and want to learn more about both of them. The woman in the middle is my great grandmother Barbara Vakoc. She and my great grandfather, Edward met in Chicago. They were both Czech. They met because she was a model for the photography studio Ed worked at. My great grandfather’s last name was Schneberger so I always assumed he owned half of the studio (based on this photo) but my mom tells me that he went to work for his uncle in the studio.

So they met and fell in love and got married. Barbara suffered from depression, and I can see it in the photo above and in other photos of her (which I will post later). She died in a mental institution after the death of a child and not long after they moved the family out west to Coeur d’Alene Idaho. I have more to say about too.

This is a poem to my Grandpa Ed
Who tells the story of the day he met my grandmother.
Who tells the story about a dance. He saw her and loved her.
Who tells the story about how he fought for her.
Who tells the story about how he won her over.

This is a poem for my Grandpa Ed
Who was thin and dying, lying in a hospital bed.
Who was dying from a wasting disease.
Whose last words to me were,
“I like you hair short. It looks very pretty like that.”